


Lifeline

by BadWolf303



Series: When Larry Met Freddy [3]
Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 08:59:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11101236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadWolf303/pseuds/BadWolf303
Summary: Freddy's starting to think maybe he'll get out of this alive. What that means, he hasn't a clue.





	Lifeline

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fool for Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11071800) by [flootzavut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flootzavut/pseuds/flootzavut). 



> Hi all! This fic is directly related to Flootzavut's "Fool for Love" (particularly the second chapter, which this is a Freddy POV of) so I strongly suggest you read that first! Especially since it's wonderful on its own, and you should read it anyway!

Freddy Newandyke ain't no idiot.

A dork, sure. Queer? You betcha. A failure? It's looking that way.

But he ain't a fucking moron. So when the cool barrel of Larry's gun presses against his throat, he's not exactly surprised. When the other cops, the ones too chicken shit to do something crazy like go undercover, joke around that Freddy's got some kind of death wish, well, he doesn't think this is what they had in mind.

But, if he's being honest, Freddy's almost relieved. Almost. He'd be more relieved if Larry was just angry. If Larry would just fire that fucking gun. If he all he did was piss Larry off instead of having Larry look so honest to God hurt. If Larry would stop crowding his space and kissing him and shoving his leg between Freddy's thighs and, really, all Freddy can do is hold on, cling to Larry like a fucking lifeline (which, he guesses, ain't far from the truth, huh?) and kiss Larry back with everything he's got in him until he's got nothing left in him at all.

He keeps saying sorry over and over because he's not gonna beg for his life--he doesn't give a fuck about that right now--he's just gonna keep saying it, hoping Larry hears it, hoping Larry understands that this is his fucking job and he can't do it because of Larry. He's a failure, but he ain't a fucking coward, ain't fucking chickening out. He's a failure because of Larry.

So, whatever. Poetic justice and all that. Let Larry kiss him, fuck him if he wants, then kill him. At least then Larry stands a chance, and someone else can catch the crook or Larry could go on for years as a professional criminal; either way it's not on Freddy's head, since Freddy is the goddamn fool who fell for the guy in the first place.

The gun's on the floor now, Freddy barely registers. He's still alive.

He doesn't care if it's a blessing or a fucking miracle, all he knows is he's not going to waste whatever time he has, he's going to keep saying sorry, keep clinging on to Larry (God, Larry is so solid and warm and not as hard and cold as a man who should be killing him should be) just keep begging Larry to call him by his real name.

Fuck Orange. Fuck that guy and his job and his fake commode story. He's Freddy fucking Newandyke, and if he's going to go out a crying, whimpering, little rat, he's going to go out with his own fucking name on Larry's tongue.

But he's not going anywhere, except manhandled to the couch, where he's practically in Larry's lap, and Larry is patting his back and stroking his hair and being the goddamn gentle lovable fucking criminal who got Freddy in this mess to begin with.

"Fuck," Larry mumbles. It's still harsh, but quieter, as if Larry's tired of fighting, and Freddy's starting to think maybe he'll get out of this alive.

What that means, he hasn't a fucking clue.

"Fuck you, Orange." Larry doesn't even sound convincing anymore.

Freddy's fucking tired of that fucking fruit of a name. "I'm _Freddy_."

Larry sighs, and to Freddy, it honestly sounds like that lifeline he was clinging to is actually there, wasn't imagined. That death wish isn't going to be granted. "Well, fuck you, then, Freddy."

He's dreamed about this. About hearing his real name from Larry's mouth. Didn't think he'd survive long enough to do so. "If you want." He barely registers that he says it.

They sit there. Larry has not killed him, has not even pushed him off his lap. Just holds him, as if Freddy didn't just confess to being the rat he shouldn't feel like he is, but does anyway, and really, doesn't that just say more about where Freddy's head is at than anything? These guys are supposed to be the fucking animals. Freddy was supposed to just do his job.

He feels Larry press his mouth against the top of Freddy's hair, feels him breathe in deeply, and Freddy thinks he might cry again. He's falling for this fucking crook, hard enough that he was willing to confess and die so that he didn't have to be the one to put him away, and could stay here, in this fucking messed up moment, forever if Larry'd let him.

It's starting to feel like Larry just might let him.

Freddy isn't sure what to make of that.

"So what do we do now?" It's Larry who asks it, asks the fucking rat cop in his lap as if Freddy has any answers that aren't "I'm so fucking fired" and "You should probably fucking run now if you don't wanna be thrown back in prison."

Freddy shrugs, though. Didn't think he'd be alive to worry about this shit. "Didn't think that far ahead. Didn't think I'd need to." He takes a risk and looks up at Larry. Larry's eyes are surprisingly soft on his own. "Thought you were gonna kill me."

"Almost did."

"Why didn't you?"

"Fuck if I know. Why'd you fucking tell me?"

Million fucking dollar question, isn't it? Freddy shrugs, turns away his gaze. He can't even begin to tell this fucking crook (whose lap he's still in, whose body is warm and solid and comforting against Freddy's) all the ways in which he's a failure as a cop, all the ways in which this little queer nerd fell in love with a goddamn hardened criminal.

"Seriously, kid, you musta known I might just blow your goddamned brains out."

Freddy knew. Freddy was pretty much counting on it. "I knew."

"Then why?"

Freddy figures he's got nothing to lose. He shouldn't even be alive, but for some reason he is, for some reason Larry is still holding him in his goddamn lap, for some reason Larry kissed him with a gun pressed to Freddy's neck and let Freddy cling to him and hasn't yet pushed him away. "Cause...'cause I didn't wanna lie to you anymore. 'Cause I'm a fucking failure, but I can't put you away. Can't be the one to do it. Even if you deserve it."

Larry stills underneath him. "Me?" he asks.

Does Larry seriously fucking not get it?

Freddy nods, feeling like a failure and feeling like the ashamed little queer kid from his past he tries not to let bother him these days. He won't look at Larry, won't let Larry see that this failure, this rat, this little queer kid who falls too hard and too easy and too fast can't do this--was ready to die--because of Larry. Just because of fucking _Larry_.

But Larry grabs Freddy's face. And he's bigger and stronger and, well, probably still fucking pissed, so Freddy has no choice but to let Larry make Freddy look into his face.

And Larry brushes Freddy's hair out of his face. He rubs his knuckles over Freddy's cheek. And Freddy swallows hard, because he's supposed to be a dead rat, but here he is, getting to see just how soft a hardened criminal can really be.

Larry raises his eyebrows, asking the question Freddy can't believe he even still has to ask. Freddy can't bring himself to answer it, though. Not with words. He tries a grin, and it's probably not all that convincing, but he feels the tops of his ears grow pink as he manages to turn his eyes away again, and, really, he doesn't blame Larry for the way he laughs.

Jesus, they're a fucking pair, ain't they? A fucking mess, the both of them.

"So buddy," Larry says, and the 'buddy' makes Freddy want to smile, "you got anything else you wanna tell me? Just how much crap have you fed me since we met?"

Larry still sounds angry, but he also sounds pretty damn amused, and really, that's more than Freddy ever counted on, and it hits his chest harder than he thinks Larry's bullet would have. This. This right here is his actual fucking lifeline.

He shrugs again. "Guess it helps that Joe don't want us talking about personal crap." Freddy almost wants to stop there, doesn't want to have to tell Larry that 'hey, all that stuff you found cute about me? Wasn't true. I ain't a good criminal, but I am a huge fucking nerd!'

He gives in anyway, because he's alive and Larry's asking, which is more than he should get as is. "Never held up a poker game in Portland. The commode story never happened. Or maybe it did happen. Not to me, though." He pauses, because, sure, maybe Larry liked the guy who told the amusing pot dealing stories, but he liked other things, too, didn't he? He liked the things that really were Freddy, too, right? "But all the other things...there's stuff I ain't told you, but nothin' else I actually told you's a lie." He feels himself blushing, tries not to cringe as he bites the bullet (figuratively, still surprisingly) and proves his point. "And all this stuff I got here?" He gestures to everything in his apartment that is so painfully _him_. "All this stupid geeky crap? It's all mine."

_Hi, Larry. I'm a rat cop. We've got nothing in common. I got no fun little crook stories to entertain you with, and, oh, I'm a nerd. Still sure you don't wanna kill me?_

But to his surprise, Larry's still looking at him warmly. "Never apologize for loving what you love. Being passionate about stuff is..." Larry drifts off for a moment, and Freddy swears he is fucking hanging on every word. "It's a good thing."

A good thing. Larry still thinks Freddy is a good thing.

"Well...then hi," Freddy says, taking the risk. "I'm Freddy Newandyke, and I'm a nerd. And queer as fuck. And a cop." That's him, that's everything about him that has kept him up at night in cold sweats at different times in his life. He holds a hand out in the few inches between them.

"You're also a fucking slob," Larry points out, and Freddy could sing fucking Hallelujahs that this is going in a direction he'd never fucking expect of that evening. "Lawrence Dimick. But I guess you probably know that. I'm a crook." He takes Freddy's hand, and just...just holds it. And Freddy loves the feel of it; Freddy has shaken hands with too many crooks in the past few months, but this? This is fucking different. "My friends call me Larry."

The fuck? Freddy can't help the way his eyes snap to Larry's. Can't help but change his mind again, because this? This is the fucking lifeline he's been needing. He feels like he might be able to actually fucking breathe again. "Yeah?"

Larry rolls his eyes and it's like the air is finally being let out of Freddy's chest, because he's giggling and he can't help it, but he's giggling in that way that he's only let Larry make him giggle since he's been thrown undercover in this world of colored code names and crooks and what he thought would be solitude.

"Nice to meet ya, Larry," he says like the fucking little goober that he is.

Larry raises an eyebrow. "I'm reserving judgement how nice it is to meet you."

Well, that bursts the bubble, and Freddy winces, because for a second he forgot that just because he's alive doesn't mean everything is fucking peachy. "Guess I deserved that."

"Guess ya did," Larry says. But Freddy can't help but think how nice it is to still be in Larry's lap. To still be held by Larry as if Larry wants to hold him as much as Freddy has been wanting to be held.

So he sucks on his lip and works up the nerve, because he's toed the line between getting himself killed and getting himself comforted all night, and he just really has to fucking know.

Larry fucking kissed him first, okay. There was a gun to Freddy's neck, sure. But he did it. "Can't be easy being into guys in your...line of work."

"I go both ways," Larry answers. "Kinda helps...ya know, camouflage."

Now, now is when Freddy could fucking sing those Hallelujahs. An entire chorus of them could probably burst right from his ass.

Larry shifts and nudges and Freddy's ass falls between Larry's thighs and...oh. Oh shit. Oh God. Oh, those Hallelujahs, man. They've got nothing on feeling Larry's desire. That Freddy isn't the only little queer in the room. That Freddy got something right in all this fucking chaos and confusion.

"Seriously, kid, that's the least of your problems right now--I like you a lot. Helluva lot. That ain't the issue."

"Oh."

Fuck all the issues. _No_ , Freddy thinks. _Fuck me_.

Freddy is on goddamn borrowed time. Freddy was assuming he'd be dead. Freddy is the little rat who fell for the crook and--holy fuck--the crook wants him, too. And he's alive, and his heart is pounding, and his blood is circulating, and, really, he should be fucking dead, but he's still in Larry's lap and Larry has not once tried to push him away.

So he makes his fucking move.

He puts his hands on Larry's shoulders, slings a leg over Larry's knees. Keeps his eyes on Larry's, because he needs to see them, needs to see the gentleness in them even though there's still fire of anger and betrayal shining there, too. Larry doesn't look away, and Freddy settles into his lap, and, fuck, this shouldn't feel so fucking right for this cop--for any cop--but Freddy doesn't fucking care.

Fuck that job, man. He wanted to be a superhero, not a cop. Larry's hands are on his waist, and Freddy's are slipping up Larry's neck, and he's kissing Larry hard and being kissed hard back, and fuck it. Fuck that job. He'll make up his own fucking rules from now on.


End file.
